Riot

Found him outside my building a month ago, and Dex and I took him in. He was so sick and malnourished you could count his ribs. His fur had fallen out, too, and he had worms. Oh and let’s not forget the wounds. Someone had beaten him repeatedly.

Look how pretty he is now, even though he’s still jumpy.

“Slowly, boy,” I tell him as I put some food for him in his bowl and guide him to it, rubbing his back a few times. “With time, I’ll fix you. Make you feel safe. You’ll see.”

He glances up at me, as if suspicious, scared I’m playing a game to hurt him. One, two, three heartbeats, then he bends over his bowl and starts to eat.

“See, Dex?” I tell the kitten who licks my ear in reply. “He’s just like you when I found you, scared to death. But you’re not scared of me anymore, are you? Come on, let’s feed you, too.”

I unhook him from my shoulder and set him down beside his own bowl. He’s so small I sometimes find him asleep in it—after he’s licked it clean. Grabbing a can of cat food, I fill the bowl and fill their water bowls.

Then I finally make my way to the small living room and sink on the sofa, too tired to even take off my boots.

Fuck, what a day. After Paxtyn, I had to cross town to meet my next client, and now I feel dirty and worn out. Worn inside out, in fact. Like I’m not myself anymore, but a stranger wearing my face.

On the coffee table, among dirty mugs and glasses, I reach for the bottle of Scotch and unscrew it, take a long swig. It burns going down and I tell myself that’s why my eyes feel so hot.

The client after Pax was a bitch from hell. Honest to God, if she hadn’t been paying—if I was free to do as I pleased—I’d have punched her in the mouth, to stop her from saying all those things.

Fuck. I take another swig. I don’t let comments get under my skin, not normally. I’ve trained myself not to feel, not to react. Let the words pass over me. I’m like oil, floating on top of the water, on top of their fucking words, their scorn and arrogance, their demeaning demands.

Fuck her. Fuck you, bitch. Yeah, I can think, I’m not just a cock to please you. Yeah, my body reacts when we have sex, and I can’t control everything. No, I won’t lick your boots if I don’t want to, and yeah, you need to pay extra to suck my cock.

It’s your privilege, not mine. Your enjoyment. I could barely keep hard with your ugly face so close to my dick.

Fuck.

Can’t believe I managed to come, filling the condom, with her mouth around it. Didn’t enjoy it. It was a dry spasm, a painful wrench inside me, rather than an orgasm.

Can’t remember the last time sex was fun. The last time I felt real pleasure. I must have. Long ago.

I toss back the rest of the Scotch and wince at the burn. Sometimes I wonder if I should go back to the illegal fight clubs where I started out. Where Markus died. Where I found out that every choice we make affects others, even if we only think of ourselves.

Especially then. Because I was only thinking of myself back then.

Dammit.

Jamming the bottle between my thigh and the armrest, I shrug off my jacket and reach up to rub at the tats on my arm. On some days I could swear they burn like the flames they depict, like the memories they bring back, searing through flesh and bone and thought.

Hellfire Fighters. I thought they were my family once, before I realized how the boss used us to make all the money and bury us in nameless graves if we were killed in an illegal fight. Before I decided to bail out, save my skin,

save my life from a fight that was sure to be my end.

And instead watched my best friend die.

All on me. My fault. I’m such a selfish prick. My vision blurs, and I swallow down the Scotch like water, let it warm me, fill me, erase me.

Won’t be the first time I wish I’d vanished into nothing, though it’s been a while since it was so bad.

Dammit. I was starting to get used to my new role in life—my new existence as a mindless toy used to get strangers off. I didn’t even mind.

No, not true. I just didn’t care. Didn’t give a shit how others saw me, how they perceived me and what I want. Haven’t stopped to think about that since that fateful night when my world was turned upside down. Since then it hasn’t been about me, but about the boy, about his life.

About making enough money to cover his expenses. It’s the least I can do, since I fucked up his life.

But now...Right now, sitting alone in my crappy apartment, a bottle of Scotch in my hand and a weight on my chest, I don’t know. Fuck, I don’t know what I’m doing, where I’m heading. Is this what life is supposed to be like? So fucking empty.

Paxtyn’s tear-streaked face flashes through my thoughts, and I tighten my grip on the bottle. Never had doubts until her. What is she doing to me? It’s as if her pain is awakening mine. As if her tears are corrosive like acid, eating through my defenses, though my walls, through the numbness.